


Archer's Paradox

by Itylien



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Hand Jobs, I feel powerfull now, I never knew how much I wanted to use "elfhood" for a dick until I did, Interspecies Sex (barely there), M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Penetrative Sex, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, Slavery (mentioned), Violence (softcore)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 17:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itylien/pseuds/Itylien
Summary: In order to shoot straight, an arrow must be flexible.





	Archer's Paradox

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).



> Dear Recipient,  
> Please enjoy.

**Archer’s Paradox**

**__** _In order to shoot straight, an arrow must be flexible._

 

**Prologue**

To their credit, most elves forced into banditry took badly to it. Starvation and disease ran rampant among scoia’tael because many of them were unwilling to steal for a living, even when absolutely bereft of any other option.

On a regular day, Iorweth would say such passivity was disgraceful and sentiment will be the downfall of his race.

On this day, with the image of the girl offering her chain to him, still burned into his retina, he realized it could have been much worse.

*

The last three days were just an unending string of insults, gradually increasing in magnitude.

That Finarian, Ceanant Finarian, the one true bandit that scoia’tael ever produced, was convinced he and Iorweth were somehow of like minds, was one thing. That the elf was slaving for the Empire and expected Iorweth to help him convince other commanders to take up slavery as well, was another thing.

That he kept showing off his camp, done up entirely in authentic Nilfgaardian military canvas and expected Iorweth to perceive it as a sign of Finarian personal perseverance rather than an obvious illustration of the fact he could be bought, was yet another, separate, thing.

All of them things that made Iorweth itch to reach for his dagger and put this disgraceful creature out of its misery for good.

But then, just last evening, the elf brought a human girl to him, cuffed through her nose, like a pig, literally a d’hoine, and expected him to consider her a generous gift.

Iorweth was speechless, enraged, it was the most insulting thing that ever happened to him. Up until the girl, her eyes to the floor, already rising up her skirts, offered her chain to him.

*

This morning, when they were leaving Finarian camp, his men were all quiet. He didn’t ask whether the elf offered them the same kind of hospitality and definitely did not want to know if any of them accepted.

First words spoken among the four of them all day came from Aedan, half-elf whose father, long dead, came from the south and who still had family in Maribor.

He said his uncle was running a tavern there and that he would be glad for the opportunity to meet his human brother again.

Usually, Iorweth wouldn’t even entertain the notion, but Aedan caught him in a state of distraction, immersed in planning of how to best get rid of Finarian and his little operation without implicating himself in the murder of another elf. When asked he just nodded and didn't surface from his reverie until they were all seated by the inn hearth, surrounded by drunk humans.

It was by some freak accident of fate that the moment he looked around his eyes fell upon Blue Stripe's new commander, disgracefully drunk and burdened with an already unconscious companion, as he tried to make his escape.

Iorweth could feel his face contort into the kind of smile that made his own men look at him in dismay. He ignored them, however, because he just realized even humans can have their uses once in a while.

**Chapter 1**

At a tavern just shy of Maribor outer boundaries, Vernon Roche was finishing off his fourth bottle of mead.

On the other side of the table, his second in command did what he could to drink himself unconscious. Raul was a seasoned soldier, entirely level-headed when sober, but a drunk. He was in danger of sliding under the table already.

Jehan and Alfrid excused themselves few hours ago to, as they put it, see the sights. Most assuredly whoring for King Foltest money. As a silent apology they insisted to pay for their commander drinks, but Vernon wouldn’t begrudge them anyway. It wasn’t his men fault he saw his mother weary face in every whore out there. He did himself a favor settling for the night where the drinking was good.

*

Temerian taverns generally enjoyed a status of the very best North had to offer. Even small roadhouses could afford very good amenities, partly due to flourishing trade but also in effect of King Griffin Act of Dispensation. It cut all innkeepers taxes in half and made it illegal for law enforcement to operate on tavern grounds without their explicit consent. This very moment Roche himself was out of uniform to void the hassle.

Still, good drinks weren’t the only feature distinguishing this establishment from the raffle. Whoever ran it did so with an iron fist and exceptional emphasis on cleanliness. In few short hours Vernon spend here, he witnessed how no less than three truly drunk men managed to pick themselves up and go puke their guts out somewhere else. Even the straw strewn about the floor didn’t seem anywhere near as vile as he usually saw in places like this.

Just this once paying up front for sleeping quarters upstairs might have been a waste of money.

Truly a shame -- he could have used another bottle.

*

There was an hour, about midnight, when most taverns got quiet. The first wave of patrons either got too drunk to make much ruckus or went home for the night to bother their wives.

It was because of this lull in activity that Vernon was able to notice a cloaked figure slipping out of the kitchens to bend barkeep's ear. After a moment of quiet conversation the man gave one curt nod and his apprentice, probably his son, threw down the rag he was wiping up the counter with to gather the cloaked figure into a bear hug.

This entire exchange stood very good chances of going unnoticed on any regular night. Gwent table was winding down, but not yet quiet. The fighting ring, that somehow always developed whenever people had time, money and no inclination to pay for sex, seemed to have run its course for the night. Instead, the men huddled together to sing their hearts out.

Vernon was probably the only patron with any inclination to process what he was seeing as worth noting, and even that happened through a pleasant haze of sweet liquor. He idly followed the cloaked figure with his eyes, as the innkeeper son led them back into the kitchens. A few minutes later they returned with three other in tow.

All of them elves.

*

Near Maribor scoia'tael mainly robbed caravans.

It was a good place for them. Thicket not too overgrown, and Prince Jurkast famously uninterested in dealing with non-human issues. Any that happened to arise were quickly relegated to the attention of King Foltest who, in turn, dispatched Blue Stripes.

This time they were investigating a hallowed husk of a village half a day away from the city gates.

It didn't take a genius to discover what happened there: all the residents slaughtered like cattle and a fresh grave, a little outside the village, filled with non-humans.

Villagers seem to have performed their own little pogrom and while no authorities noticed the squirrels in the trees sure did and took offense.

Took violent offense because it seemed there were children among the elven corpses.

Not exactly a mindless crime, impossible to comprehend, but King’s interest was mainly in finding out whether the empire could be implicated in it, and so the last week of Roche life was spent combing through Maribor woods in search of leads.

There, by the fire, with the proprietor son pouring wine and smiling delightedly at their company, sat the leads.

There were four of them.

The one who innkeeper son was practically clinging to, smiling and joyous, clearly three drinks away from bestowing drunken kisses upon his apparently great friend, and three more.

Two have already dispensed with cloaks but the third one was more reluctant to. He was looking around as if still assessing the inn for threats.

When he finally decided to reveal his face Roche could feel himself going white in quiet terror.

*

What was Iorweth even doing in Maribor? His regular hunting grounds were in midstream Pontar where the elf practically owned the land, terrorizing nobility, merchants and common folk alike. At this moment the reward for his head, taken from his shoulders with extreme prejudice if at all possible, counted in thousands of orens.

Hanging him would have absolutely been worth the last few days spent in the middle of a swamp counting leaves on trees. Not to mention if he was here he’s the one who slaughtered the Rashepel village. It was exactly his style.

Instead of attempting to arrest him, however - Act of Dispensation be damned - Roche's hands were tied. He could not take on four elves while drunk. He couldn't have taken them all at the same time, with a crossbow at the ready, stone cold sober.

Rather than panicking or doing something stupid Roche attempted to reason out his options: civilian dress, Raul not likely to be cognizant any time soon. Two rooms bought for the night, the cheapest ones that still had doors, because it was one too many mornings he woke up in a puddle of someone else's vomit and it seemed like a bargain.

Maybe, just maybe, that forethought of his sober self from a few hours ago will serve him now.

He could try making his way upstairs, using his unconscious companion as a decoy, then go out a window and try pulling rank on the guard captain, maybe get some eyes on the deforested zone around the city that the elves will have to traverse to get into the trees and disappear. If nothing else he would find out what general direction they headed for.

A plan thus formulated, he leaned over, attempting to rouse Raul, mostly for show and so that few drunk men sitting around the same table could laugh at his efforts, as if he was one of them. Some even offered to help in throwing the drunk out on his ass, but Roche waved them off, staggering to the other side of the table and pulling his barely conscious lieutenant to his feet.

**Chapter 2**

Last to cheapest rooms at the inn were really just glorified closets. Cots inside were latched to walls when not in use, lowered only for sleep. Most drunken patrons probably couldn't even manage that much.

First unoccupied room Roche happened upon didn’t have a window. There was a rooflight, but not even a child could fit through it. He sighed, awkwardly lowered the cot, deposited his useless second-in-command on it and crab-walked out of there to see if there was more luck to be found.

Two doors down, on the other side of the hallway, was another open room. This time it should be one overlooking the stables…

Chasing squirrels through the woods did wonders for one reaction time. Roche didn't hear any steps, didn't see any shadows, swish of a blade made for all the warning he needed.

Immediately he dashed inside, hoping to smash the doors into his attacker’s face, but wasn’t fast enough and a swift kick sent him to his knees. Usually, that would be an advantageous position for him, making it easy to roll out of range, but there was nowhere to go. He barely had enough space to get up, put his back to the window and take a look at his attacker.

Of course, it was the masked elf. Who else would it be? It probably made very little difference for Iorweth whether he took his badge of office in fair combat or after stabbing Roche in the back in a drunken brawl.

*

Usually, small dagger held flush to the elven wrist, wouldn't even be a cause for concern but usually, Roche would not have to rely on his shirtsleeves to keep him alive. On the bright side, lack of cumbersome clothing made it possible for him to make full use of his agility, kicking the blade out of the elf hand. The blade clattered to the ground between them, tantalizingly close but absolutely out of reach. They both had a severely limited range of motion and nothing to use as a distraction; Roche could only focus on the elf and the elf could only focus on him. If either of them were to try and reach the dagger, the other would simply kick his teeth in.

Sober, Roche would have attempted to find some other way out of this situation. He was tasked with discovering the reasons behind Iorweth crimes often enough, he knew the elf could be quite reasonable. This very moment, however, his options seemed extremely limited. He was absolutely unarmed. Since the window could have been lacquered shut against rain there was no point even trying it. The only way out seemed to be through the elf and, judging by his smile, the bastard knew it.

On the spot, Roche decided to force his way back into the hallway by force or die trying. Impromptu charge surprised Iorweth enough for the human to land a hit, but he wasn’t able to gain nearly enough momentum to actually push the elf out of the way, instead delivering himself into grappling range, for some brutal, but shamefully ineffectual hand to hand combat.

*

Few seconds in Roche managed to smash Iorweth nose, with his own face, hard enough for blood to spill between them. It would have been more satisfying if it had been on purpose. While he was recovering from the impact the elf somehow managed to pull out another dagger that Roche ripped right out of his grasp, carelessly throwing it aside to clatter loudly when it hit the other discarded blade.

Without giving himself even a moment to breath, let alone think, Roche attempted to get his hands around Iorveth throat but elven gambeson made such maneuver much trickier than it seemed so instead, he grabbed at the facemask, hoping to enrage the elf. It tore away with clumps of elven hair still stuck to it.

In retaliation, Iorweth twisted the skin on Roche's hips harshly enough to rip undignified yowl of pain out of him, at which point reflex alone had the human slamming up into the elf’s pelvis. He missed his target though, and instead of unbalancing the elf it gave him enough traction to try and topple them both.

That was a mistake. The elf probably assumed Roche would fall backward, but his already unsteady knees bent in just the right way to send the human into the wall, which gave him enough momentum to reverse their position and hurl the elf to the ground instead.

Exactly as he had the blades. Damn it.

Roche ended up straddling the elf.

Not the best position to be in, but the only one that allowed effective hold on monstrously strong elven hands. Pinning them into the floorboards under his knees Roche reached again to throttle the elf.

*

For a moment the ruin of Iorweth face was the only thing Roche could focus on. Twisted in rage, the scar raw and vivid, it was a sight to behold. Distracting enough for the human to forget what he was supposed to be doing up there. The elf tried to use that moment of confusion to jerk away, buck Roche off his hand, but that only served to bring his telling hardness to the human’s attention.

“This is what does it for you?” Vernon asked, bewildered “Really?”

“Shut up, d’hoine.” demanded the elf, turning his flushed, blotchy face away and still trying to tear his hands free. “Ignore it.”

Under normal circumstances, he would have done just that. Maybe jumped away in disgust because what the fuck? This never happens with elves.

It happened now though, and because adrenaline and alcohol mixed poorly, he found Iorweth indignant demand incredibly amusing. Without really processing what he was saying, Vernon smiled down at the elf,

“Ignore it? I don't think so.” It suddenly seemed like a great idea to see for himself how much would it take for this elf to stop trying to get away from him.

**Chapter 3**

Not terribly much, in the end.

Vernon tangled his hands into elven hair, not letting Iorweth look away, holding him down through slow, methodical rutting. It was fascinating to see rage receding from his ruined face, leaving heat in its wake. Eventually, the elf stopped struggling at all, arching up instead, biting at his lips to keep quiet. Vernon couldn’t look away from his mouth.

“I want to taste you.” he heard himself say, without really meaning to, “Can I?”

Iorweth stared up at him, clearly shocked, his fingers still struggling for freedom. Vernon leaned harder onto them; this was not the best time to get careless and get stabbed.

Finally, going through confusion, fury, and distrust, the elf settled on a challenge, gnashing out:

“You want a kiss you'll gonna have to come down for it.” Vehement and threatening. A warning. It would probably be wise to heed it, but whatever alarm bells might be going off in this head, Vernon wasn’t listening, already leaning down to press his lips against the scar. It tasted of blood and the same mead he got drunk upon.

The elf bit him of course. Hard. Drawing blood that mixed with red streaks already dripping from Iorweth bleeding nose. Vernon licked at his lips, chasing the taste, feeling how the elf was still slowly pressing up into him, stiff and yearning.

“That's not what I meant,” he said against Iorweth lips, causing the elf to freeze. He stopped struggling, stopped breathing.

Taking it for the assent it was, Vernon moved away, letting the elf have his hands back, only somewhat aware of the very real danger he was putting himself into. He didn’t care.

Another heartbeat of absolute stillness, and finally the elf reached for complicated ties at the waist of his own gambeson, shucking it all away few moments later, leaving himself in a thin, soft tunic. It was the kind of brown that made the skin around it seem to glow. Vernon felt saliva flowing into his mouth already.

He didn't wait for the elf to be done with undressing to start touching again, letting his hands roam up slender legs, feeling muscles corded underneath soft breeches until Iorweth slapped him away to get them off. Naked from the waist down, the elf was looking at Vernon with wary suspicion, visibly ready and willing to use the blades he already found on the floor to his advantage at first sign of trouble.

*

Sadly Vernon had very little idea what to do with a dick that wasn't his own. His hazy mind remembered one was supposed to lick women to get them to become wet and well, the elf was smooth and slender like one so maybe it’s going to work...

With little regard to very real danger, his life was in, Vernon pushed the elf to his back, then grabbed his naked legs and bend them back as he would with a woman. The elf obviously took issue, but he didn't go far in his complaint, dropping the dagger entirely once the human put his mouth on him.

Unlike Iorweth face, his elfhood didn’t flush with color, no matter how insistently Vernon was mouthing at it. It was stiff, and the elf kept groaning quietly every time Vernon wandered too close to the tip, but his shaft remained pale and cool through all of it.

Once the elf began to pull his hair to get him to do what Iorweth wanted him to with his mouth Vernon became intently grateful for all the alcohol in his system, keeping his own need from becoming frantic. Every little hurt echoed along his spine like distant thunder from an oncoming storm.

He heard the elves were not exactly quick in these matters, but eventually, Iorweth became frantic. Roche had to hold his legs by force, putting much of his body weight into keeping the elf open and easy to taste. From this vantage point he could clearly see Iorweth trying to keep soft, keening sounds he was letting out from becoming louder by stuffing one of his hands into his mouth. The other one kept reaching for his shaft, until Roche intercepted it, thoughtlessly linking their fingers together. Finally, his voice breaking and breathless, the elf sobbed,

“Plea… Please don't make me come like this. Please.”

*

A moment ago Vernon might not have felt any pressing need to come, but it slammed into him all at once along with the meaning behind Iorweth words. He didn't even have time to open his breaches, just came to the sound of the elf shaky exhale, his face pressed into the elven thigh.

“Thank you.” Iorweth said, with only slight mocking edge, “Are you ready to talk now?”

Vernon looked up to him, startled eyes glassy, pupils blown wide, but he didn’t have enough breath to reply, and also didn’t get any opportunity to regain it as Iorweth expression turned inquisitive. The elf casually ripped human smallclothes apart to reach for the flesh inside. His fingers were cold and his touch unkind.

“You're not going soft at all.” He accused, as if offended, moving to kneel astride the human, his glare fixed on the length filling his palm. “How many times can you do that and still be hard?” The elf demanded.

“It's not... It...” Vernon smashed his head hard into the wall behind him, looking for actual pain to distract him from intense overstimulation of cold, elven fingers moving up and down his glans, from fingernails dipping slightly into his slit as the elf smirked down at him, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“It hurts? You're so swollen and engorged it hurts even though you've just spent?” Iorweth leaned closer, moving his lips against the human neck, whispering softly, “That's disgusting.” and making a lie of it as he pressed his cold, stiff sex along the heat of the human shaft. A yelp of protest died on Vernon's lips as the elf took them both in hand, moving slow, squeezing just a little too hard.

Vernon didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to grab the elf, force him into the familiar rhythm he understood as pleasure, but maybe this agonizing, easy slide was how it worked for the elves. The closeness was intoxicating and this slow, steady rut felt a lot like bliss but Vernon would need something more to be able to get off again.

He slid his hands into the cut of the brown tunic Iorweth was still wearing, mapping out the muscles working under his skin, as the elf moved them both. Iorweth gave a breathless laugh when Vernon happened upon a ticklish spot but didn’t demand that he stopped touching. Encouraged, the human ventured higher, following the ink weaved into elven skin, tracing it with his mouth where he could reach, with his fingers all the way down to the small of Iorweth back.

Eventually, feeling the spiral of arousal winding tighter and tighter still Vernon managed to gather enough courage to reach up for the scar. He put his fingers to the ruined eye, dipped them into the freshly healed valley of it, hot like the rest of the elf wasn’t. Iorweth one remaining eye snapped from where he was observing their glans rubbing together in his hand, to Vernon's face, possibly looking for disgust, but he won't find any. Iorweth face was glorious in ruin, radiant for it rather than marred by it.

“Can I kiss you again?” Vernon asked, faintly, expecting to be denied even as he felt his climax nearing.

The elf hummed impatiently but closed the distance between them, letting the human tongue into his mouth, letting Vernon taste him on the inside as Iorweth brought them both over.

**Epilogue**

“Talk?” Vernon asked, finally having recovered enough to process the elf’s earlier words. He sounded confused like the very concept didn’t compute in his mind. Iorweth laughed at him, openly mocking,

“Yes human. Talk. I’ve seen you were drunk but I think your brain is actually damaged by it.” the elf made to move away, maybe even go away and while Vernon might have been confused about what the hell just happened, he was very sure he didn’t want the elf gone.

“Hey, no. Stay.” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around him. “You're here for the night right? If no one came looking when we started throwing punches no one will.”

Yet again Iorweth looked at the human in disbelief, but instead of tearing away by force he said only,

“You’re asking me to stay here, with you, on the floor? No.”

“We’ll use the cot. Just…” the human didn’t seem to be able to finish the sentence, but just this once the elf took pity on him,

“Be swift about it.”

*

The cot was woefully insufficient. They were both of similar size, if in a different distribution. It took a moment for both of them to figure out how to be comfortable with someone so close.

Iorweth didn’t expect the human to cling to him so, but to be fair he expected very little of what happened these last few days. The human kept peppering small kisses anywhere he could reach, harmless things the elf didn’t know how to protest at this stage so instead he made to explain what actually brought him here. However monumentally addled his brain, getting the human to deal with Finarian is still the best option he has.

“I…”

“Did you…” the human whispered, at the exact same time. His breath would be uncomfortably warm on any other occasion, but whatever magic seized them both has yet to lift, so instead of irritation Iorweth felt amused by the interruption,

“Go on, d’hoine.” He said and regretted it immediately when the girl flashed before his eyes. For once he didn’t mind the warning squeeze the human gave for the insult.

“Did you exterminated the village east of here?” It was a weird question to hear when the human didn’t even take his lips away from his skin. By now Iorweth barely remembered a dingy, smelly human dwelling that the dryads pointed out to them.

“Yes.” He answered truthfully. It’s not like either of them suddenly stopped being who they were.

“Thought so.” The human muttered, mindlessly tracing the design on Iorweth skin. After a moment he relaxed minutely as if resigning himself to something. “What did you want to talk about?”

Iorweth remained quiet for a moment, then turned awkwardly in the circle of human arms still wrapped around him. Looking right into the human face he said,

“I have information I’m willing to part with.”

**The end.**

**Author's Note:**

> Dead Recipient,  
> I hope you managed to enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> But I can't be sure you did, and I kind of want to bring you at least some joy this holiday season. To that end I ask you to turn your thoughts toward that scene in the forest. You know which one. From the game.
> 
> I was unable to ascertain by your request, whether you already see it as someones fanfic but it totally, totally was. ;DDD  
> And that someone - whoever it was and whether they were aware of it - was into the ship so deep they couldn't resist making it canon even though it made next to no sense for the fight to be there.
> 
> Do you remember how it went?!
> 
> If you chose Iorweth you got to defeat Roche, look down on him... tell him to his face he's your favorite human alive and ask him to never take his eyes off you?? Like c'mon! If I wrote something like that into my fic you'd accuse me of breaking your fluff DNW ;DDD
> 
> And if you chose Roche it's even worse! You got to defeat Iorweth (after trying and trying and effing trying) just to hear him tell you to your face you're his favorite human, he considers you a friend and he's glad to die by your hand!
> 
> This is all 100% in in game not a fevered dream or anything. Someone wrote this into the script and they were either high up enough or excited enough no one had the balls to tell them it's too ridiculous to use.  
> I mean... Wow.
> 
> Also... I mean this is a personal interpretation thing but have you ever seen Iorweth dream? That short thing where he smokes weed and babbles of glazed carrots?  
> He's in a stone cottage. Clearly of human make. A pig is roasting over a fire. There is extremely prominent bottle of temerian alcohol displayed on the table right next to him.  
> I'm just saying - there's no way he's alone in there.
> 
> I don't know. Thinking of all these things brings *me* joy. ;D
> 
> And if all this still fails to bring *you* joy... Consider checking out Daken/Lester tag on ao3. Even if you have no idea who the hell I'd recon you may like what you'll find there ;DDD


End file.
